


Misstep

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: F/M, Infirmary Sex, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 12:33:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1688513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time it happens, it’s because she had nightmares all the night. It’s three hours later, in full light, and she’s still trying to forget them. (Season 1)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sara

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Faux Pas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1688492) by [Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune). 



The first time it happens, it’s because she had nightmares all the night. It’s three hours later, in full light, and she’s still trying to forget them.

It’s quite early, the infirmary is quiet and sterile, the lights are too bright and they are giving her a headache. She’s aware of her nervousness as she’s fixing his insulin shot. His eyes follow her but he doesn’t move at all. When she turns around to grab the rubber gloves on the tray, she stumbles and falls forward. Her hand brushes him just _there_ and he’s hard and hot under her fingertips. He jumps in surprised and tries to back away, but he’s sitting on the exam table and has no room to move. She blushes. Not because she isn’t accustomed to eliciting this kind of reaction. But because she isn’t accustomed to reacting accordingly, or to wanting to act accordingly.

She detects a hint of disarray when she fixes her gaze on his. Still watching him carefully, she sneaks her hand under the waistband of his pants and strokes and fondles him. He dares not stop her nor does he encourage her. He just clutches the edge of the table and, with a restrained breath, he leans forwards, like a boxer who has just been punched in the stomach. He doesn’t try to kiss her and she knows that he realizes it would break the unreal quality of the moment. He just catches a lock of hair between his lips.

When he’s finished, she withdraws her hand, watches her fingers before she wipes them on her white coat. With a shiver, part disgust and part arousal, she thinks that no matter how many times she washes her lab coat, there still will be reminders of what happened.

\- - -

The second time it happens, it’s because it’s a Sunday: she will blame her outfit, her clothes being more casual than what she usually wears. She came here to do some paperwork, but a guard asks her if she would be willing to see a patient. She accepts because she’s a doctor; she’s meant to take care of patients.

She treats the cut in his eyebrow. As she steps back to throw away the compress, she can feel his eyes on the elastic belt of her sweatpants. Oh. She turns towards her desk, feeling like ‘backlash’ is written in bold letters before her eyes. She can tell that he slides off the exam table. She doesn’t move. He embraces her from behind, one hand on her waist to hold or withhold her – she can’t tell yet – the other slipping under her clothes. She feels his fingers tracing her, drawing her and pushing inside her. Her breathing erratic, she instinctively shoves her hips back to grind into him, but he just utters a small reassuring mumble, his mouth against the nape of her neck. This time, it’s just for her.

Her knees buckle and she leans heavily against him: he holds her, finally, she notices while grabbing his arm.

When she’s finished, he withdraws his hand, watches his fingers and, with a small smile, she holds her lab coat out to him. She thinks that if it keeps going on like this, she won’t have anymore coats. But it can’t keep going on like this, of course.

\- - -

The third time it happens, it’s because it’s late and she’s wearing a skirt, a reason that is as good as any other. He’s been lying in the infirmary bed for a few hours (she has rarely seen a healthy man spending so much time in an infirmary) and she has sent away the guard, promising she will call him when ‘Scofield can go back to his cell’. The room is dark, because she turned off all the lights but her desk lamp so he can rest, and quiet and empty because it’s too late for regular visitors.

She places an electronic thermometer on his forehead. It probably was a momentary infection because she tells him, “The fever went down.”

The diagnosis brings up a small sarcastic smirk, and she has a real hard time not sneering. She has to admit that the phrasing was awkward, the involuntary double entendre almost embarrassing given the circumstances.

“So I can go back to my cell?”

“Yes,” she answers but gives no sign that she means to call the guard.

Without thinking, she casts a glance towards her chair.

Before they can understand how it happened, he’s sitting on the chair and she’s standing between his knees. He slides her lace panties down her legs – systematically she’s been wearing lace or silk underwear for a reason that is neither more innocent nor more guiltless than the fact she’s wearing a skirt tonight – and meticulously puts it into her lab coat pocket. The gesture, so characteristic, makes her smile. She lowers herself down on him and it feels like, for a few seconds, they stop breathing. Then, slowly, he pulls on her tee-shirt collar and leans forward. He kisses and bites the pale, smooth flesh, just where the neck meets the shoulder. Just where he knows it will leave a mark, but it will be easy to hide. She kind of regrets that she can’t do the same. She hears a strange sound and finally realizes that he’s speaking softly into her neck, the words low and hurried against her skin. He wraps an arm around her waist to hold her and she tries to stabilize herself by putting a hand on the nape of his neck and the other on the chair backrest. It doesn’t work that well: stability – whatever the term may cover – isn’t within her reach, right now. He hugs her a bit tighter, as if he fears that she may leave now and she lets one her hand drop, sneaks it under his clothes. The skin is soft and warm beneath her fingertips and she almost feels the blood pulsing under her palm.

She closes her eyes. This is definitely not what she meant when she thought that it couldn’t keep on like that. Definitely not. A hand searches for her own, fingers entwines with hers. He protests when she bites something that turns out to be his ear – she bites the cartilage, not the flesh – but he somehow lacks conviction. _Definitely not what she meant_.

When they’re finished, she tries to catch her breath and casts a glance above her shoulder. She has the impression that someone watched them all along. She knows that it’s nothing but an impression, the kind of thing that happens when your conscience isn’t at rest.

She stands and lets him fix her hair, smooth her skirt. His hands are shaking but he smiles, all sarcasm forgotten: he’s as stunned and not sorry as she is. When he gets up, he stumbles and she thinks that that’s fair because that’s how everything began.

Her brand new white coat is crumpled and she foresees that she won’t ever be able to wear this one again either. She doesn’t dare to think that it definitely can’t keep going on like this.

\- - -

She sits gingerly behind her desk and wonders if she shouldn’t ask for another a new chair. The skin on her neck is chafed, just in the spot where Michael’s chin has rubbed persistently, but she doesn’t really worry about taking care of the irritation right now.

She looks inside herself for a feeling of regret or at least remorse. She really does.

-END-


	2. Michael

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time something happens, it’s because it’s too early in the morning. He’s not yet totally awake and he’s already sitting on the exam table in the infirmary, his mind a bit clouded. (Season 1)

The first time something happens, it’s because it’s too early in the morning. He’s not yet totally awake and he’s already sitting on the exam table in the infirmary, his mind a bit clouded. He can’t remember what he dreamed about last night, but it was obviously _pleasant_. Doctor Tancredi pacing back and forth right next to him isn’t helping his situation at all.

She’s pale and moves around nervously without paying attention to her surroundings. She doesn’t even notice that he smiles soothingly at her. Of course, in the end she trips over the stool that stands in her way. She swears and stumbles forward, one of her hands landing on the exam table, the other one on him and she kicks the chair out of her way with irritation. He cringes and tries to escape her, but his only way out is to get up and walk out, and that’s not an available option. When Sara looks up, he remembers why a man in his condition should sit with his hands folded in his lap.

He desperately tries to come up with something to say, anything, but all he can come up with is ‘Think!’ That doesn’t help. His always hyperactive brain is spinning, and he speculates that Sara’s mind is as foggy because she looks him straight in the eye. With a determined expression, she slips her hand in his pants. He doesn’t dare move, he doesn’t dare breathe, he doesn’t really know whether he wishes or fears that somebody will stop them. He grips the edge of the table and leans forward, his forehead a few inches away from Sara’s shoulder, his face in her hair. He closes his eyes and forgets where he is. He hopes that he keeps quiet.

When she releases him, she looks at her hand indecisively then wipes it on her lab coat. Even the crudeness of her gesture can’t quite bring him back to reality.

\- - -

The second time something happens, it’s because Bellick ordered a general search of the cells while he’s in the foundations of the building. He splits his eyebrow when coming back in a hurry so a guard has to bring him to the infirmary. He remembers what happened the last time they were alone in here. He will blame his good manners and the fact that he believes in reciprocity: one always must return a favor.

She turns her back to him the first time to throw away a few compresses and he thoughtfully eyes the elastic belt of her pants. Nifty. She turns her back to him a second time, deliberately, to face her desk and he gets off the exam table where she left him because if that isn’t an invitation, it’s at least a tacit consent. She doesn’t move, doesn’t protest when he embraces her and slip a hand under her clothes. He finds exactly what he was looking for, smiles and explores thoroughly. She presses her hips against him, stretches her arm behind her to grab him and press him into her. He just murmurs “Shhh” and nuzzles her neck, stealing a kiss.

Her legs give under her and she slowly collapses against him. It would almost make him forget about the reciprocity principle.

When he releases her, he looks at his hand. With a small smile, she holds out her coat out to him. Because of the complicity of the gesture, he loses the small connection he’d re-established with reality.

\- - -

The third time something happens... He could probably find a convincing reason to explain it, but the truth is he’s been lying in the infirmary for several hours with a fever, watching her as she went about her usual business. Earlier she turned off the ceiling light so he could rest; only her desk lamp is still on and it casts weird shadows on the walls. They’re alone in the room, which is oddly quiet. He’ll say that the third time something happens it’s because of Abruzzi. She worries that the wound John inflected upon him might get infected, so she keeps him in. He needs a culprit and this definitely wouldn’t be John’s worst misdeed anyway.

Late in the afternoon, she puts a thermometer on his forehead and lets him know the fever went down. The assertion makes him smirk; she does her best not to look him in the eye when she says it.

“So I can go back to my cell?”

She nods her head but doesn’t move to call the guard. She quickly glances at her chair by the desk.

He’s pretty sure he’s been sucked into a temporal black hole; it’s the only reasonable explanation. One minute he asks her an almost innocent question and the next moment he slouches heavily into the chair. His hands creep up Sara’s legs while she unfastens, opens, pushes aside anything that will get in the way and bother her before she finally slides down on him. It lacks stylishness, but that is made up for with enthusiasm and they move along in a rhythm as if each gesture had been thoroughly choreographed. Never before had he realized that the best plans aren’t necessarily the most elaborated ones. He holds her tighter and she puts her hand on the nape of his neck. He holds her even tighter and her hands drops, goes down, struggles to slip under his shirt and his tee-shirt looking for skin to touch and caress. She strokes him up, from the small of his back to his shoulders, her nails biting in his flesh, too lightly to leave marks and he kind of regrets it. He whispers in her neck but the well rounded words he’s so used too are failing him and all he can come up with is _oh_ and _um_ and _Sara_. He doesn’t doubt that they convey what he really thinks, though.

He can feel the chair rolling backwards and bumping into the wall. He can’t help smiling because the metaphor is really perfect – they have their backs against the wall, no way to pull out now. He doesn’t think Sara realizes this and if she does, she doesn’t care. He catches her free hand, clutches it and entwines their fingers. She clutches back, surprisingly hard, and bites his ear. Not the flesh but the cartilage, and he starts and thinks that reality is truly a strange, even overrated, thing. Reality – his reality anyway – is a place where a sharp jolt of pain induces bliss. He closes his eyes and he’s quite sure that this time, he _doesn’t_ keep quiet.

He doesn’t totally release her, even when, his face buried in her neck, he can guess that she’s turning around to glance at the door in a quite late expression of worry. He holds her hand and helps her up, then straightens a few locks of hair, smoothes her shirt and her skirt, his touch caring and feather-like. Her white lab coat is crumpled and creased but he doesn’t lay a hand on it. He’s never had fantasies about white coats and hot doctors, but he thinks he won’t ever be able to look at them the way he used to.

He’s aware that all he wants to do is make the moment last a bit more longer. He assumes he should at least feel some guilt, but when he looks at Sara, he understands that neither one of them is there yet, quite the contrary, and he smiles at her.

He stumbles when he gets up and he could swear that she’s almost satisfied to see him so awkward.

\- - -

The guard leads him through the hallways towards A Wing, a hand under his elbow. He still can feels Sara’s breath on his cheek, her weight against him, her scent on him. He can barely stand that the guy touches him _now_ , but it’s not like he can do anything about it.

All three times he was alone with her. He thinks that really, he shouldn’t ever be alone with her.

-END-


End file.
